IRISH SPRING

I've lived in Chicago all my life. I grew to love Winter when I found the solace of state & national parks on camping trips in January & February during my high school years. I really learned to love the Winter when I began skiing when I was 19. Being a jock, I now had baseball in the Summer, basketball in the Winter, and ski trips to look forward to during the dark days. It was years before I allowed any day with sunshine & green grass remind me that I suck at golf.

I've always loved the seasons, and I've always found joy in all of them.

But it's mid-June in Chicago after the coldest Winter in 75 years & the wettest Spring on record. The White Sox are going nowhere, the Cubs soap opera is already tiresome, Bears fans are already insufferable, and I can't get out to play golf because it's always raining!

Enough to turn a tough guy into a cry baby.

But then a phone call comes in late on a rainy Sunday night. The kind of call you're not surprised to get; the reason why you keep your shoes on late at night long after everyone else has taken theirs off.

If you're one of the lucky or smart ones who receives the calls about the people who weren't so lucky or smart, the ringing phone never surprises you. Neither does the news that you receive. You switch to autopilot. You remember your mom's words about creating chaos when everything's OK and remaining calm when everyone else panics.

It's in these moments that you find peace. It's in these rainy moments when you walk out into the dawn rain and see the flowers you planted for the first time. You walk to the street just so you can walk back toward the house and see the colorful explosion of life you've planted.

In an instant, your complaints about the wet weather fall to the wayside. You look up at the flower boxes you built with your neighbor last Spring, and all the flowers bursting out of them, and realize he'll never see them again. He's gone.

You think about all the people you loved who died young from bad decisions or bad habits. You're too old to be angst ridden anymore, and too young to want to join the crew. You're working against the clock, trying to write it all down before your number comes up.

You look up into the cool rain. You look around and see everything bright & green, waiting for the sun. You've been thinking about how you don't want to go to Ireland until you know how many days on this planet you have left.

No sense in seeing Paradise till you're ready to stay.

But then you see it standing in front of you, and it's the place you live with the Irish girl you always hoped you'd find. You've got blues people and musicians and missionary priests coming for dinner in your yard Sunday afternoon.

The rain falls softly on the flowers growing in the boxes you built with your departed friend. The birds dance in the puddles. The dogs shake out under towels in the kitchen, and the grills in the yard stay cold as soup is reheated in the kitchen.

Irish Spring.